those little ways—
the whole waitress thing, the whole thing about never having
had that kind of relationship with him, the sculpture
from your imagination."
Elspa is quiet for a moment. Her beautiful pale wet
face is still. "He's dying. I didn't think it was, I don't
know, appropriate."
"Appropriate?" I shout, incredulously.
She wipes the water from her face, hugs herself. I can
see one hand gripping the wreath tattoo on her upper
arm.
"Look, I can handle it from here," I say. "Your turn at
his deathbed is over. So you can go. Thanks for everything."
I pause, something occurring to me. "One question:
do you love elevators?"
"Elevators?" she asks.
"Never mind." That must have been yet another one
of Artie's sweethearts. How many are there? And each of
them comes with how many lies?
When Elspa stands and starts to walk to the patio
doors, I look up at her. She's shaking. "Why did you
marry him in the first place?" She stops and then turns.
"Didn't you ever see the good in him?"
I stare at her. This is a completely unacceptable question
to ask. I don't owe her an explanation of my love
for Artie, and I'm about to tell her this, but then it's
back—that fissure inside me, a breaking open. I find myself
thinking of Artie and me, a very particular hilarious
moment, and I start to talk in a very quiet voice. "When
Artie and I were on our honeymoon, it was mating season
for stingrays. We were walking out in the surf, holding
hands, and this guy told us the stingrays were harmless
unless we stepped on one. 'Then what?' we asked each
other. 'Certain death?' We walked back toward shore. I
screamed first, thinking I'd brushed one with my foot,
and then Artie screamed because I'd screamed. And then
I screamed because Artie screamed. And then it was just
funny and we kept screaming back and forth all the way to
the shore, just because."
I'm gazing into the pool. I've said it all so quietly that
I'm not sure if Elspa heard me. I'm not even sure she's still
there. But when I look up, I see her, across the pool, her
eyes brimming. She doesn't say a word.
I keep going. "Once a punk kid from the neighborhood
tried to steal Artie's old Corvette out of the garage
and Artie heard him from bed and ran naked down the
street after him, swinging a golf club."
Elspa laughs. I do, too, a soft flutter in my throat.
I can't stop now. "His favorite place to think and make
big plans is a junky diner called Manilla's. He speaks a
great butchered French. He always messes up the words
to songs but still sings them loudly. He always has trouble
hanging up on telemarketers. I once caught him sort of
counseling a telemarketer hawking a lower mortgage rate.
The kid—a woman of course—was just out of college and
deep in debt and confused about whether or not she
should get engaged to a pilot. Artie was on the phone for
an hour—just handing over good advice." Strange how I
simply rattle these off. I suppose these are my responses to
Artie's numbered inscriptions from the flowers he kept
sending me. I suppose I've been compiling a history of my
own, without really knowing it, and here they all are,
spilling out of me.
"When his dog Midas died, the upstairs bathroom
sprung a leak right at that same time and he tore up the
house looking for the leak, where it was coming from,
how it was moving along beams and pooling somewhere
else. But it was really about the dog. He loved that dog . . .
And he wanted me to get pregnant. He wanted that desperately.
He used to put his head on my stomach in bed
and pretend he was designing my womb so that the baby
would have a plush pad to live in for nine months. Things
like: maybe if we move the sofa over here and get one of
those fluffy white throw rugs . . ." I stop myself. I can hear
Artie's voice so clearly in my head that I don't want to go
on. I shout across the yard, "You fucking bastard!"
"I'm sorry," Elspa says.
I blink at her. "About
the whole waitress thing, the whole thing about never having
had that kind of relationship with him, the sculpture
from your imagination."
Elspa is quiet for a moment. Her beautiful pale wet
face is still. "He's dying. I didn't think it was, I don't
know, appropriate."
"Appropriate?" I shout, incredulously.
She wipes the water from her face, hugs herself. I can
see one hand gripping the wreath tattoo on her upper
arm.
"Look, I can handle it from here," I say. "Your turn at
his deathbed is over. So you can go. Thanks for everything."
I pause, something occurring to me. "One question:
do you love elevators?"
"Elevators?" she asks.
"Never mind." That must have been yet another one
of Artie's sweethearts. How many are there? And each of
them comes with how many lies?
When Elspa stands and starts to walk to the patio
doors, I look up at her. She's shaking. "Why did you
marry him in the first place?" She stops and then turns.
"Didn't you ever see the good in him?"
I stare at her. This is a completely unacceptable question
to ask. I don't owe her an explanation of my love
for Artie, and I'm about to tell her this, but then it's
back—that fissure inside me, a breaking open. I find myself
thinking of Artie and me, a very particular hilarious
moment, and I start to talk in a very quiet voice. "When
Artie and I were on our honeymoon, it was mating season
for stingrays. We were walking out in the surf, holding
hands, and this guy told us the stingrays were harmless
unless we stepped on one. 'Then what?' we asked each
other. 'Certain death?' We walked back toward shore. I
screamed first, thinking I'd brushed one with my foot,
and then Artie screamed because I'd screamed. And then
I screamed because Artie screamed. And then it was just
funny and we kept screaming back and forth all the way to
the shore, just because."
I'm gazing into the pool. I've said it all so quietly that
I'm not sure if Elspa heard me. I'm not even sure she's still
there. But when I look up, I see her, across the pool, her
eyes brimming. She doesn't say a word.
I keep going. "Once a punk kid from the neighborhood
tried to steal Artie's old Corvette out of the garage
and Artie heard him from bed and ran naked down the
street after him, swinging a golf club."
Elspa laughs. I do, too, a soft flutter in my throat.
I can't stop now. "His favorite place to think and make
big plans is a junky diner called Manilla's. He speaks a
great butchered French. He always messes up the words
to songs but still sings them loudly. He always has trouble
hanging up on telemarketers. I once caught him sort of
counseling a telemarketer hawking a lower mortgage rate.
The kid—a woman of course—was just out of college and
deep in debt and confused about whether or not she
should get engaged to a pilot. Artie was on the phone for
an hour—just handing over good advice." Strange how I
simply rattle these off. I suppose these are my responses to
Artie's numbered inscriptions from the flowers he kept
sending me. I suppose I've been compiling a history of my
own, without really knowing it, and here they all are,
spilling out of me.
"When his dog Midas died, the upstairs bathroom
sprung a leak right at that same time and he tore up the
house looking for the leak, where it was coming from,
how it was moving along beams and pooling somewhere
else. But it was really about the dog. He loved that dog . . .
And he wanted me to get pregnant. He wanted that desperately.
He used to put his head on my stomach in bed
and pretend he was designing my womb so that the baby
would have a plush pad to live in for nine months. Things
like: maybe if we move the sofa over here and get one of
those fluffy white throw rugs . . ." I stop myself. I can hear
Artie's voice so clearly in my head that I don't want to go
on. I shout across the yard, "You fucking bastard!"
"I'm sorry," Elspa says.
I blink at her. "About
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